On the Morning Watch

Well just to keep you informed I did eventually manage to get some sleep between 5 and 7am this morning. I'm not sure exactly how much but I was sleeping when Mr T woke me up with his usual endearment;


"If you don't get up the boys will miss the bus."


Interpret as you will.


Well the boys did catch their bus. Master Jacob had no school tie though and neither of them had brushed their teeth. Hmm. I hope my dentist isn't reading this; he gives me a really hard time if they're not brushing properly. It's like the Spanish Inquisition at my dentist. How many times are you brushing? Left to right? Gums? Backs of teeth? Electric? Blah, blah, blah, blah. It's enough to shock any decent mother into lying.


"I'm afraid bad teeth is genetic, Mr Dentist. I blame their father."


So anyway, I did actually get some sleep and because I was woken up suddenly I can also remember what I was dreaming about...


So I dreamt I was a secret agent during World War Two. (Obviously, the contents of my previous blog which mentioned secret agents had been instrumental in this turn of events.) In my role of secret agent I was to be parachuted into German occupied France.


With my horse.


Yes, even in my dream I thought it was odd. And I have to say I was bit worried that our shared parachute would break and we would both plummet to our deaths.


So I suspect you're imagining I was to ride the horse in Lawrence of Arabia style across the French Alps randomly taking out any passing Germans with my slingshot. Not so my friends. It was a far more cunning plan. I was to ride the horse to my destination (somewhere in France obviously) where I was to slaughter the poor animal. ( I watched Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall take his lambs to the abattoir last night - I looked away but it obviously still had an impact on me.) Now if watching Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall isn't gruesome enough in my dream my instructions were to turn my unfortunate horse's carcass into sausages.


I'm not sure why I was to make sausages- but I am assuming it was part of some cunning plan to poison the Fuhrer. Now the reason I don't know for sure is that the dream never got as far as that I was still in training and had to undergo some more essential exercises which, somehow or other, involved having sex with Hugh Grant. Now, if you remember I almost had a close encounter with Hugh Grant few weeks ago but Mr T's alarm clock woke me up just as it was getting interesting. Anyhow, the good news that this time I managed to squeeze in most of the encounter before (regrettably) switching back to the dilemma of how to safely share a parachute with a horse.


It's a strange world I live in. And dream in.


Now I've no idea why I should suddenly start dreaming about Hugh Grant. I don't even fancy him. Well not much. Maybe a little because he's funny and I like funny men. It could be because he's been in the news lately in relation to the News of the World telephone hacking scandal and even more recently fathering a child. Anyway, I'm not complaining. I'd like more dreams like that. Yes indeedy! The only problem was that when Mr T woke me up he was a bit taken aback when I pulled out a cigarette and said "How was it for you, Darling?" Fortunately,  I quickly realised my slip up so I leapt out of the bed (which would distract any man I can tell you) and screamed at the boys "Hurry up the bus goes in ten minutes!"


So there you go. I'm not sure what that dream was about really. I don't think it was anything deep and meaningful like psychologists would have you believe. However, if you want to interpret it for me please feel free to do so. (No need to interpret the Hugh Grant bit - I've worked that bit out already.)

On The Night Watch

Three small sherry sized glasses of wine and 2 cups of non decaff and I can't sleep. That'll teach me.  Who knows what I'd be like if I did drugs if this is what mere wine and coffee does to me. I can't sleep at all. Nope, not a wink. I can't even imagine what taking some LSD or such like would do to me - forget the hallucinations I'd probably have enough energy to swim the channel and back. I know that sounds impossible but if David Walliams can swim the Thames whilst he has tummy trouble I reckon I can swim the channel with insomnia.

You know, I keep wondering what the inside of David's wet suit looked like while he was swimming. I'm not having pleasant thoughts. 

Maybe he wore a diaper?

Still, at least my kids don't suffer from insomnia. If they did I reckon they'd be pretty shocked to discover on Christmas Eve that Santa is a cross dresser and looks like a middle aged women with an addiction to cotton wool.

I should be in the secret service. If I was captured by the enemy and they tried that old trick of not letting letting you sleep in order to wheedle out vital information I'd be able to laugh in their faces. In fact whilst my interrogators were asleep I'd simply undo the locks with metal keys fashioned from my bra clasps and walk free.

James Bond overcomplicates things don't you think? All that thuggery when he needs to get out of a tricky situation. Maybe he should just wear a bra.

Hmm. Could be kinda kinky. Daniel Craig in Elle MacPherson's latest underwear collection. There's definitely a feature film in that. I nominate myself as script writer.

I've made myself a milky drink. That's supposed to work with insomnia isn't it? It doesn't usually for me but well I might as well try the simple methods before I bang myself over the head with the rolling pin. The rolling pin method does work but I feel bad for Mr T when I tell him he's been having nightmares and clubbing seals in his sleep. 

Well not that bad obviously. Amused maybe.  

Well nearly 5am. Time to hit the sack and see if sleep comes. I have to get up at 7am so I need to take emergency action.

I'd better go and find the rolling pin.

It's a turkey Jim, but not as we know it!

Gosh. This morning I learnt a very interesting fact about my American friends.

They deep fry their turkeys!

And I thought Bush had just been pensioned off.

Oh come on. Don't get grumpy with me. It's just a joke! We have turkeys too in this country. Most of them have wings though. However, I'm prepared to believe Blair and Brown were turkeys and what's more I'm prepared to deep fry them too. In fact, I'd been happy to spit roast them.

Nothing like a red hot poker and a politician with his pants down to bring a smile to my face.

Yep, so I came across this video starring the lovely William Shatner of Star Trek fame on the subject of  deep-frying turkeys:

Right. I'm coming clean. I kinda have a crush on Bill Shatner. I don't think I've ever got over that original Star Trek series and I've loved just about everything he's ever done  - even T J Hooker. I'm not sure what that means - maybe I just have bad taste? But I do love his self-effacing humour though - it really makes me giggle. I can't believe those rumours, originating from other members of Star Trek cast, that he was rude and arrogant - maybe there was a little jealousy going on? After all, Bill was exceptionally handsome and had the starring role in one of the most famous TV series of all time and what's more he didn't have to wear false ears or be stuck in Engineering all the time. I mean he had all the dolly birds and the most impressive phaser. Who wouldn't be jealous?

So back to turkeys. I can't believe my American Friends deep fry their turkeys! Do any of my American Readers want to enlightened me as to why? Bill implies it makes them more juicy. Really? I thought it would make them.... well sort of dry and burnt. Wouldn't they shrivel? You know - like a man's testicles when he gets in hot bath water.

Or when your wife drops a can of beer on them just after you've had a vasectomy. Not that I've ever done that of course. (Cough, cough.)

(Awaits imminent arrival of divorce papers.)

Anyway, over here in the UK we just ram the turkey in the oven and hope for the best. Well I do. It usually works out okay. And, if not, there's always curry sauce.

Three cheers for curry sauce (from a jar obviously) one of the world's best inventions!

Is a Blog a Liability?

Let me think about that question.

Um.

Yes.

How do I know this? Well this morning I spoke to my good friend Mrs B who said to me;

"Jane, I've seen a job you could do!"

Cue Mrs T getting all excited. A job suitable for Mrs T? There's not many of them around! I did think about applying for a job as a school chef a short time ago but I'm not good at cooking and I don't want to be associated with lumpy mash potato. Anyway, I decided to quit while I was ahead - I mean nobody likes to get sacked - so I saved myself the anxiety and didn't apply in the first place. Now I know you lot probably don't think I'm that bad at cooking so I might as well tell you that recently Master Jacob lodged a formal complaint about my toast. Apparently, I burn it. Hmm...and I just thought it was "well done."

Humph. I like my toast "well done". Who wants soggy toast? Not me. I hate toast that's all limp and drips marmalade down your tee-shirt. I used to have soggy toast all the time when I was living in university halls because at breakfast they rammed all the toast together in a tray and it sweated. I spent three years wearing an orange tee-shirt and smelling of citrus fruits. I don't suppose the smell was too bad but finding those marmalade chunks stuck on my chin during lectures was pretty embarrassing. I'm not even going to mention the Marmite incident. Only to say that we were studying Martin Luther King at the time and I got thrown out of my tutorial.

Some people just take things too seriously don't they? And all those left wing lecturers have no sense of humour do they? I mean when was the last time you heard a Leftie tell a joke?

Um... let me think 1789. When Robespierre said:

"I sink we should decapitate see King and  Marie Antoinette! Zay 'ave far too much monet and far too many wigs.  Sose wigs are far too expenzive. When zey are dead we will 'ave so much more monet to give to ze poor!"

Some time later...


"General Robespierre, we 'ave executed zee King and zee Queen and we 'ave sent all zee wigs too zee market! Soon there will be monet for everyone!

"Oh no, no, no, no. You fools! It was a joke! Now sere vill be a reign of terror!"

Anyway, I like my toast "well done" and  if I make too many slices I can always use the spare ones as Frisbees. Or one of those Japanese shurikens.

Now where was I before I went off about toast? Right, so Mrs B directed me towards this job which admittedly did sound like one I could do. It even had the word "flexible" in the job description. I don't mean just "flexible" in the context that they want you (as most employers mean) to drop everything at their convenience but "flexible" in a give and take kind of way. Amazing.

So I looked at the job description. It held some promise. Mrs T is a bit rusty but well with a bit of blagging I decided I could probably do it.

The only trouble is - the job is for the local Conservative Association.

So what if it was discovered I write a sometimes "politically incorrect" blog? Imagine the headlines...

MP HAS NUTTER AS SECRETARY. GOVERNMENT POLICIES RIDICULED ON WEB BY PSYCHOPATHIC WOMAN WHO POSED AS DULL MIDDLE CLASS HOUSEWIFE.

You know, I quite fancied that job. Lots of interesting things to do. Only part time. Occasionally I even like discussing subversion politics.

There might even have been the odd occasion when the MP was in residence that I might have taken him some tea and toast.

Evil laugh.

However, even though this blog isn't a political blog and is essentially humorous in content I'm inclined to think my writing is a bit of a liability for that kind of a job. In fact, I suspect it could be deemed a liability for quite a few jobs.

Hmm.

You know, if your being rude about your employer in a public forum then you are indeed a liability to the company. There's already been quite a few such incidents in the blogosphere and other social networking sites resulting in the sacking of employees. In those circumstances, if you lose your job then my opinion is you have to take the consequences on the chin. However, sometimes I have a sneaking suspicion that even though many people/institutions tout free speech as a prerequisite of democracy they don't actually like it.

An interesting thought don't you think?

The Bike with One Big Wheel and One Small Wheel

Not so long ago I wrote a post called On Yer Bike which related a story about how Master Ben had asked me if I had a bike with "one big wheel and one small wheel" when I was young.

Now Master Ben is 10 years old. It is acceptable for him to not know the correct name for such a bike.

However, it has come to my attention that across the world almost daily people are Googling "Bike with one big wheel and one small wheel" and arriving on my blog.

Obviously, I am hoping they are all school children. However, as I am nothing but generous I am now delighted to finally make use of my history degree by informing the world that the "Bike with one big wheel and one small wheel" is actually called a ...

 PENNY FARTHING

Now for a small fortune I will regale you with the story of how my grandmother invented the Penny Farthing. (You may recall my story of how she also invented the rugby ball.) However, if you want the truth just try Wikipedia or a history site. I'm not big on the truth - although my grandmother was but that's because people looked up to her and respected her.

That's what happens when you're 9ft 7" and have arms like a wallaby and legs like a giraffe.

A Big Expensive Mess

I think this story  is most one of the most entertaining stories I've ever read. Certainly equal to the story about the woman who knocked herself out on her loo roll holder. 

Apparently, a cleaner in a German museum mistook an exhibit for a big mess and cleaned it  up. The exhibit was entitled "When It Starts Dripping From the Ceiling" and featured "a tower of wooden slats under which a rubber trough was placed with a thin beige layer of paint representing dried rain water."

Personally, I think the cleaner deserves an award; if the art looked like a pile of crap it probably was. It's hard to believe it had a price tag of 1.1 million dollars attached to it.

Hmm.... maybe it's an inside job. Perhaps the museum just got tired of seeing a stain on the floor and decided to fake a claim? I mean a stain on the floor and some old slats is hardly a Turner or a Picasso is it? I reckon they just got fed up with having to walk round the unsightly mess and just got some poor hausfrau to clean it up for a couple of frankfurters and a weekend break to Poland.

There's something in this "Modern Art" malarkey. I'm looking for a job and not getting anywhere. Perhaps I should rekindle my artistic ambitions? I have an A level in Art surely that must qualify me as artist??? Hmm... I don't think I was revolutionary enough though when I was studying; I should have been more creative, more innovative. I should have let myself get in touch with my deep-seated psychological disturbances and interpreted them in an abstract cosmic fashion in order to define the metamorphosis of the human mind from the embryonic stage of the foetus to a fully fledged adult in juxtaposition with the universe. A sort of metaphysical interpretation of the human mind in relation to its earth mother.

Yeah, well something like that.

You know, I have a really greasy grill pan. I'm going to call it "When it Starts Dripping From The Bacon" and send it to The Tate.

Hmm. Now I'm not sure now. "When it Starts Dripping From The Chicken" sounds  better. Oh the dilemmas, the dilemmas we artist have! I'm in such a flap now I'll have to create two greasy grill pans and compare them - then I can sell the best pan to The Tate and the one that comes second to the Germans.

No particular reason.

I think I'll have to mount the German exhibit on a very small podium. What d'you reckon?

Oh God, now I'm sure at all about the German exhibit. Maybe it should be frankfurter fat and not chicken or bacon fat?

Oh, it's so, so difficult being an artist. I'm in such a tizz now I'll have to check into rehab.

Hmm... that'll probably increase the value of my work tenfold. All I have to do now is cut off my ear and I'll never have to work again.

Genius, pure genius.